Recognition
by SuperKateB
Summary: Eames looks for certain signs, certain little details that make Bobby, well, Bobby. And when they're not there, she's surprised...and confused.


**"Recognition"  
A Law & Order: Criminal Intent Fanfiction  
Written by Kate "SuperKate" Butler**

"I wanted to look the part."

We're stopped at a stoplight in the middle of Manhattan when he says it, horns blaring from this direction and that as the cross-traffic inches along. Rush hour in New York City is peppered with more road rage than the average person can possibly imagine and perpetuated by the knowledge – and fear – that cops in unmarked (and marked) vehicles are not the only drivers packing heat.

Our heat rests in our shoulder hostlers, and I glance up at him as he says it.

I barely recognized him that morning when he wandered into the squad room, half an hour late (unusual), and settled down at his desk. I stared, blinking, as he thanked me for his coffee – black, caffeinated, no sugar, three creams – and danish – strawberry with extra frosting. Our caseload has been heavy and he didn't glance up from his paperwork, which was probably for the better. I would have been embarrassed if he noticed me staring.

Then again, I'm sure he did. He picks up on the smallest details. He knows my wardrobe better than I know it myself, and I'm used to arriving in the morning only to have him say, without glancing up, "New shirt?" or "Nice shoes." So, of course he noticed me staring. He probably enjoyed it, took slightly twisted pleasure in it. He does that, from time to time, smirking at me when I give him a blank look, as if to say, "I've still got it."

He's still got it, and sometimes, he needs to recognize that fact.

Recognition is a funny thing. I watch him as he glances away and out the window at the gridlocked traffic, his eyes distant. Even when you work with someone for years, you develop little tricks of the trade to recognizing him: the cut of his favorite shirt, the way he walks, his haircut. His propensity for spelling certain words wrong on a booking form, his chuckle when I say something particularly sarcastic, the gray at his temples. I've developed a rubric of sorts, I suppose; it's my "Bobby Goren" checklist. He walks into the squad room, and I run down the list quickly, giving him a once-over as he hands me my coffee (a caramel mocha with extra syrup) to make sure everything is still in the correct place.

This morning, I bought my own damn coffee (this has only happened, what, four times?) and picked up his as well, and waited. Waited for him, of all people. He's admitted, more than once, that he usually gets into the office a full hour before anyone else, including Deakins. Item number one on the checklist, "Waiting for me, armed with coffee," remained blank.

"Does it bother you?" he asks, still staring out the window.

When he did arrive, it made a lot more sense. We're trying to sting a murder suspect today by pretending to be interested in buying his house. I came to work dressed in a frou-frou purple sweater and a pair of jeans that not even my mother would wear (so dorky, so square, so not me), with my hair back in a headband and tennis shoes where my heels should be. I stuffed my wallet full of pictures of my nephew (it's not hard to say he's my son and appear as though I'm not lying) and brought extras for Bobby. I even fished the old wedding rings I'd so much rather forget about from my jewelry box and set one on his desk. Next to the coffee. And the danish.

You know, one of these days, I think I should get more than lunch out for the trials and tribulations of pretending to be Mrs. Robert Goren.

He stumbled into the office half an hour later, dressed in a gray t-shirt with an open flannel over it, faded jeans (I didn't even know he owned jeans), black Nikes, and a windbreaker so 1980s that I wondered if he'd stolen it from Planet Hollywood. He thanked me for his coffee and danish and enjoyed them over paperwork, and I stared.

We slipped on the trappings of our fake life – rings on fingers, photos in wallets, badges and guns well-hidden – and finally, I found myself sick enough of staring to state the obvious.

"Bobby… You shaved."

He smiled and rubbed a hand on his cheek. "Yeah," he admitted with a small, sheepish shrug, "I guess I did."

Another item on my checklist, "Never, ever, ever, ever, in the history of the universe, shaves that God-forsaken stubble all the way" stayed blank.

Sitting in traffic, horns blaring and cab drivers cursing, I smile slightly and reach up to run two fingers across his bare jawbone. "It's different," I admit, "but I kind of like it."

"So… Should I keep doing it?"

Checklist item "Always searching for approval, no matter how small," unlike many of its brothers, today, does get a mark beside it.

The light turns green and I shrug away a smile. "Nah," I reply casually. "It's just… Not you, Bobby."

He smiles back as the traffic begins to crawl forward, and looks back out the window. "I thought so, too."

**Fin.**

Standard Disclaimer: Law and Order and all related characters belong to NBC and Dick Wolf. I am simply borrowing them with no intent to, you know, make money. Friends, perhaps, but not money.

Author's Notes: Goren never shaves. So my question: what if he did? I just some Eames/Goren fluff to start my morning. And yours, too, I suppose.

February 28, 2005  
11:41 a.m.


End file.
